George Isolde and the Brass Ring Polka Band (Ch VI
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Chapter VI
Making hay was satisfying but monotonous work. It was nice to see the cut hay come off the end of the rake, like a green waterfall, cascading into a long even wave. And it was satisfying to look back and see row after row of mounded hay stretched out across the flat field. At first, Terry had paid close attention to the tractor and rake, worried that something might break, and listening for the telltale rattle of things amiss. But the steady thump-thump of the old two-cylinder Deere soon became just background noise for his reveries.
“That’s the nice thing about some farming operations,” Terry thought to himself. “Raking hay and harrowing are mostly brainless. It relaxes me and give me time to think about things.” He let his mind wander as he thump-thumped across the field. He wondered if Isolde was more than just a pretty face – did she read real books, or just romance trash? He had seen the corner of a paperback book poking out of the top of her backpack. “Backpack! Humph! What kind of woman has a fight and walks out in the middle of the night armed with a backpack, sleeping bag and tent? She must be pretty resourceful,” he thought. He liked that idea. He had never found needy, clinging-vine types interesting. There had been plenty of them around when he was in college. They were always mooning over someone – “usually brainless jocks” he thought to himself, though he had his share of followers, too.
He remembered one girl in particular. She had always been so quiet and reserved until that night they had decided to go swimming after the party. She had shed her decorum with her clothes and turned out to be a wanton hussy. But for the next week, she had clung to him like a limpet. He finally had to hurt her feelings just to get her to give him a little breathing room. The final straw was the night she threw a crying fit because he was not paying attention to her while he was up on the bandstand. “Musicians shouldn’t get romantically involved,” he thought to himself.
Just then, a limerick popped into his head.
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